


Thyngs More Important Than Chocolates

by athenejen



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Yuletide, Yuletide 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenejen/pseuds/athenejen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lobsang doesn't generally have much use for conventional social norms, but sometimes they're the convention for a reason.  They give you something to do with your hands, for one thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thyngs More Important Than Chocolates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiboribi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiboribi/gifts).



> Thank you so much to S for the quick beta and Britpick, and to both S and J for the cheerleading and general awesomeness.

Every week at half-past three on Sundays, Susan had a visitor in for tea. True, this visitor by rights could come and see her literally whenever he wished, but Susan preferred things to be orderly. Or, more accurately, as she had amended upon taking in the hurt look Mr. Soak had given her the time she'd mentioned this philosophy to him during one of his daily deliveries of Ankh-Morpork's freshest and most hygenic yogurt, Susan preferred things to be orderly _enough_.

Lobsang, to the surprise of no one—except perhaps his father, but that was a whole different hourglass full of sand—was somewhat less concerned about order and rather a lot more concerned about what sorts of biscuits Susan put out from week to week. After all, there was little need to be concerned about something it took concentration to see in only four dimensions. Nevertheless, Lobsang was always precisely on time. It was easier to just put in the little bit of effort than to risk what he privately thought of as her Schoolmarm Look. It was a Look he found uncomfortably attractive, but he preferred it directed at other people.

He was just removing the top layer of biscuit from a custard cream to get at the fondant centre when there came a knock on the door. Susan set her teacup down to answer it. When she came back, it was with a large, wax-sealed envelope and a puzzled expression.

"It's from Jade," she said, breaking the seal with a deft flick of her finger. She scanned the letter quickly, then went back and read it again, this time more slowly. Lobsang relieved another custard cream of its centre as he waited for her to finish.

"I don't suppose you'd like to come to the Ramtops with me next month? It looks like Jade convinced her father to let her marry Crag from the next valley over, after all."

"'Course I'll come," said Lobsang. "I've never been to a troll wedding! And at least this one won't involve the traditional feast, I assume."

Susan shook her head. "No, those sorts of things are discouraged amongst the modern troll, these days."

She penned a quick reply and took it back out to the courier. When she returned, she and Lobsang commenced an extended analysis of one of the more complicated temporal mathematics problems she had come upon in her recent reading.

After they had got as far as seemed prudent for a single afternoon, and after Lobsang had finished carefully deconstructing the entire plate of custard creams, Susan walked him to the door.

"You know," Lobsang said, his tone thoughtful. " _We_ should get married one of these days."

Susan, who had expected some further insight into time dilation compensation or perhaps a refinement on the time depreciation equation they had been constructing, stared at him. She would normally have given him the Look, but she was too startled to manage even that.

"Think about it," continued Lobsang cheerfully. "Our children will be _amazing_."

Then he waved at her and stepped through door. By the time she thought of something to say—she was going to go with "CHILDREN?" but there was a strong possibility of "YOU CAN'T JUST _SAY_ THINGS LIKE THAT" coming out instead—she knew that even if she made it to the door in an instant, he would be gone.

She found herself thinking about that moment several times in the following week. The fact of the matter was, none of the responses she could think of seemed quite satisfactory. The most infuriating part was that when she thought about it too long, she could nearly _remember_ their children being amazing. And then she had to go and formulate another lesson plan to distract herself, because she kept a strict policy of remembering only the past. It was safer than the alternative, as a general rule.

If she were as honest with herself as it was difficult to avoid being, she could admit that the part of her that wanted to shout yes and leap into Lobsang's arms like some soppy heroine from a story was not a small one. But Susan found that even though she had not given the idea much—or indeed, any—thought before this, now that the situation was upon her, she felt quite strongly that there are some things that ought to be _asked_. And he hadn't.

The next Sunday, when Susan opened the door to her rooms, it was to the largest box of chocolates Weinrich and Boettcher's sold, hovering beneath a proliferation of flora in all shades of black. Susan would later determine that the bouquet included one of every variety of black flower that bloomed anywhere—and in any season—on the Disc. This included the rare Hanging Tulip of Sto Kerrig, a flower prized more for its history of triggering widespread economic collapse in several cities along the River Ankh than for its rather listless aroma and dull, flat hue.

"Er," came Lobsang's voice, only somewhat muffled by the foliage. "Um. That is, it was brought to my attention that I may have been somewhat… remiss in performing certain _formalities_ …"

Susan waited for the end of the sentence. The flowers at the edge of the mass wobbled.

"Ah, so." Lobsang pressed on, because for some things, there was no way out but through. Is it not written, he added to himself, somewhat hysterically. "I brought these for you?"

Oh, sod it, thought Susan. She plunged her hand into the mass of satiny black petals to grab Lobsang's arm and yank him through the doorway. Flowers went everywhere, but they both caught the box of chocolates before it tumbled more than a few inches.

Lobsang looked down at where their hands were tangled around the box, then up into Susan's face.

"Susan," he said. He cleared his throat. He'd practiced this! Over and over he'd practiced. But somehow, at this exact moment, all the words fled his brain. He could see them tripping over each other on their way down the stairs.

"Susan," he tried again. Susan waited as patiently as she could, her hair ravelling itself up slowly into tighter and tighter curls. "Will you? That is, you will, won't you? Marry me, I mean."

Well, it wasn't the sort of poetic declaration of love her mother would've wanted for her, but Susan had never really seen the point of poetry, anyway. It'll do, she thought, and dropped the box of chocolates in order to draw Lobsang firmly into a kiss.

At first he tried to hold onto the box, but after several seconds of split focus and fumbling hands, he decided to just buy more chocolates later and let them fall.

Considerably more than a few seconds after that, they both pulled back. Lobsang was panting slightly and distinctly pink around the ears as he beamed at her. Susan was doing her best to suppress the beginnings of a foolish smile, but she could tell that her hair's enthusiastic abandon was giving her away.

She couldn't bring herself to care one whit.


End file.
